


Waiting

by fakeditfromthewordgo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeditfromthewordgo/pseuds/fakeditfromthewordgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'That’s the thing about a terminal illness: it leaves no room for second-guessing. You’re going to die. And I’ve realised there’s no way around that.' Dean/Castiel, The Fault in Our Stars 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not entirely sure as to what this is, but it's been on my mind for a while, and if i don't post it now, i probably never will. unbeta'd, written at a ridiculous time in the morning, all mistakes are my own etc etc. i'm not sure if this can be taken offensively, but that's not the intent at all.

Every day is a cycle. Sleep. Breathe. Eat. Phalanxifor. Listen to my kid brother whine. Consultant meeting here or there.  Play, pause, rewind. I never tell anyone these thoughts, though - Sammy’d probably cry, sensitive little girl thing he is. But it’s true, and there is no next song for me; I’m the single to everyone else’s discography, and I wasn’t a hit. I flopped, nothing catchy or memorable. I just kind of exist, in the middle of everything. Something to pity, and thank God (not that there is one) things are better for you than me. 

Part of my Sunday cycle includes Dr Sexy, possibly the best television show known to man. Usually there’s just a double showing, but today’s there’s a marathon, and for that reason, I point-blank refuse to even consider talking to Sammy when he comes along with his usual ‘come on Dean make an effort’ bitchface. I think that one’s number seventeen. 

For some reason, Sam’s got it into his pretty little head that I’m depressed. I think it might be the whole ‘refusing to leave the house’ thing. I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. Depression is for people with hard lives. Mine is, really, when you think about it, incredibly easy. I live. Then I die. That’s the thing about a terminal illness: it leaves no room for second-guessing. You’re going to die. And I’ve realised there’s no way around that. Accepted it, too. I’m not sad, I’m just _realistic_.

Sam, however, is kind of a different story, which leads to him forcing me to attend this crappy support group every week. A group of cancer kids discussing life, rainbows, and freaking puppies. Our conversation goes like this. 

Sam: “Dean.”

Me: “If you have to talk to me, can you do it from the side of the TV?” 

Sam: “Don’t be such a jerk.”

Me: “Side of the TV, bitch.” 

Sam: “Support group, Dean.” 

Me: “Nope.” 

Sam: “Come on. Disinterest in activities is a sign of depression.” 

Me: “Excess time spent in libraries is a sign of crying your way through sex.” 

Sam: “Please, Dean.” 

That’s where I give in, every damn time, because I can’t refuse my little brother when he looks at me with those puppy eyes. And God damn does he know it. 

I drive myself, because no one touches my baby except me, cancer be damned, and either way I know Sam’ll be waiting outside until the end of the session, just in case. It’s kind of sweet. Creepy, but sweet. 

“See you later,” he says pointedly, when I opt to rest my face against the steering wheel instead of leaving. 

I jab a finger in his general direction without moving. “You better record Dr Sexy for me.” 

“ _Go_ ,” he says exasperatedly, but there’s a note of amusement that makes me grin, despite the bleakness awaiting me, and my parting shot is a quick ‘bitch’. I can hear his shouted reply of ‘jerk’ as I pull my cart along to the entrance, and I shake my head. It’s hard not to love Sammy, but the idea of him living without me terrifies me. 

I pull up my usual sludge-brown seat, shooting a weak smile at those who give me a pat on the back, or a ‘hey, Winchester’. It’s the same group of people as last week, which sounds like a pointless thing to point out, but the disappearances can hit hard. I don’t like all the kids, but there’s some I can’t hate. Jo Harvelle, a tough blonde in remission from appendiceal cancer (which I didn’t even know existed), whose eye-rolls and sarcasm made the long hours almost bearable. Garth, with his ridiculous answers and annoying hugs, who was always so genuine it was kind of painful to watch. They were okay. I could deal with their presences in my life. 

Jo had just pulled her chair up across me, and we were exchanging our weekly conversation of sighs and shrugs, when the door swung open again. Footsteps echoed in quick succession, and suddenly I was hit with a lapful of Garth. No one knows the meaning of the statement, ‘I’m a hugger’, until they’ve met Garth Fitzgerald. 

“Garth,” I try to say, but my voice comes out muffled against his ugly check shirt. “Garth, dude, seriously. Can’t breathe.” When he doesn’t even loosen his grip, I add: “Kind of a problem, man, when my lungs are full of cancer juice.” Then, thankfully, he takes a step back, and I can see past his shoulder. 

I know he’s saying something in his Southern accent, but I’m not really listening, because damn, _who is that_? ‘That’, is a guy in a tan trenchcoat, trailing slowly after Garth, looking around as if the world confuses him, and he doesn’t really understand the idea of existence, let alone why he’s here. His hair is dark, and casually ruffled, but it’s his eyes that get me. Wide and unblinking, a deep, dark blue (none of that light baby crap), they hold mine with absolutely no shame. His head is tilted slightly to the side, and I’m completely mesmerised. 

Garth kicking my leg brings me back to Earth. Fuck, the guy’s hot. “Dean? Hello?” He waves a hand in my face, and I just glare at him; he just smiles back at him, completely clueless. “Oh. Hey. You’re back. Totally missed you for a sec there, buddy.” I just shake my head, subconsciously rearranging the nubbins in my nose, because he’s _still staring at me_. Suddenly, I’m painfully aware that my jeans are ripped at the knees, and my jacket’s old and faded, and damn, I’ve never given a shit about anything like that in my life, but a hot guy is staring at me, and I don’t know what to do. 

“Shut up, Garth,” I finally manage to reply, and the guy is right next to him, looking at me like I’m a particularly hard maths equation. Thankfully, I’m saved from any further interaction as Anna, the Support Group Leader, sweeps into the room, a sympathetic smile pasted on her face as always. 

Truthfully, the woman pisses me off. Sure, she means best, with her soft voice and gentle encouragements, but what the fuck did she know about anything? She had breast cancer, and now she doesn’t, and this is meant to be some big inspiration about it. She lost her hair, and it grew back. This is what is supposed to help me out of my deep, endless depression. It doesn’t.

Garth and the guy quickly find themselves seats next to Jo - _he’s two seats down from me_ \- and Anna takes her place at the top of the circle. She gives her usual ‘congratulations, you made it’ speech, and then we go around the circle, introducing ourselves. We do this every week, regardless of any additional persons, and it’s always struck me as an entirely pointless exercise. 

“Dean Winchester,” I say as always when it comes around to me. “Eighteen. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, romantic movies--“ 

“ _Dean,_ ” Anna says, as she always does when it comes around to me. But the guy’s lips are kind of, just a little bit, curved at the corners, and that means nothing else matters. 

I roll my eyes at her anyway. “Dean Winchester. Eighteen. Thyroid, with mets in my lungs. I’m great.” The last bit is said sarcastically, but instead of commenting, Anna just gestures to the next person. She’s given up on me. I kind of have too. 

But the guy’s still staring at me, and it unnerves me. It’s rare for a cancer kid to be noticed by anyone, even when they’re as wordlessly attractive as myself, and it puts me on edge. 

“Castiel,” he finally speaks, his voice gravelly and deep deep deep. “I’m here for Garth.” His words come haltingly, like he’s not quite sure what to say, but it’s not uncomfortable to listen to. 

Anna moves on quickly, but I barely notice what people are saying in lieu of this staring conversation I’m having with Castiel - _Cas_. My mind snaps back to the conversation only when he raises his hand. I only vaguely know what Anna’s discussing - something about strength - but apparently my beauty didn’t render Cas unable to listen. 

“God,” he says, simply. “God gives me strength. I believe... I believe we are here for a reason, and I made it through because there is something I must fulfil for Him.” He speaks the noun with such resonance that the capital is non-debatable. 

I don’t know what it is that makes me raise my hand, but Anna pounces on it with evident delight. Dean Winchester, participating? Christ. 

“Dude, I’m not knocking your religion, or anything,” the words fall awkwardly from my mouth, but his gaze on me is strong, like he’s giving me a chance. “But there’s gotta be something else. Like, you can’t just pin your hope on something that _might_ be there in end. Things are too hard to live for a maybe, you know?” I shrug. I wish I believed in things like he did, like Sammy did, but I don’t say that. Even hot guys that stare at you for copious amounts of time don’t want to hear that girly bullshit. 

He’s smiling. A surprised, taken-back smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

I decide I like the look on him. 

When the session’s over, and chairs are being stacked away, a hand reaches for my metal cart before I can. It’s a good hand. Muscle, and that. 

But I’m damned if I need anyone’s help. “I’m not a charity case.” I say to Cas - who else? 

His eyes are unreadable. “Am I not allowed to help?” 

“Fine,” I shrug. “But I don’t _need_ it.” I sound like a petulant child, but he just nods at me, walking slowly towards the exit. After a minute of silent walking and staring, I turn to him. “Dude, you gotta quit staring.” 

His gaze flickers downward for a split-second. “I do not understand.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts, before continuing. “After I had my leg replaced, I gave up on pretending not to openly observe things that are beautiful.” 

My cheeks flare. “Cas, man. Calling a guy beautiful is not cool.”

“My apologies. ‘Hot’ just didn’t have the same impact.” His voice is dry, but I think that’s _almost_ a joke, and I chuckle at him. 

“C’mon,” I reply, and again we walk along in a comfortable silence. 

It’s not long before we reach a corner, beyond which my baby’s parked, and Sam is sat within. I stop Cas with a gentle tug on his sleeve, that’s big enough to hang off his skinny wrists. 

“Dean?” He sounds confused, but the trust laced through his voice causes an almost-painful spike of ‘ _maybe something_ ’ to push through my chest. 

“I, uh,” my words trip and stumble on my tongue, and I curse myself. Goddamnit, Dean, you are not a thirteen year-old girl. “I gotta go alone from here, man. You don’t want to meet my kid brother, trust me. But, uh, it was nice meeting you, Cas.” 

He doesn’t speak for a while, and when he does, it’s not what I’m expecting. “Cas?” 

“It’s a nickname,” I explain, unsure as to whether he’s taking the piss, or whether he’s just never been close enough to anyone to warrant a nickname. The idea makes me angry for some unknown reason.

Another long pause. He shuffles his feet, tugs at his tie, runs his hand through his unruly hair. I want to grab him, make him stand still, kiss the frown off of his lips. But I can’t, of course. My body’s a warzone, and I am determined to keep the casualties to a minimum. 

“There’s this... movie,” and now the words sound unpracticed, awkward, too big for his mouth, “that I would very much like to watch. With you. At my house.” He looks, for the first time, everywhere except at me. 

I should say no. I know I should. 

Before I know it, my feet are propelling me towards the passenger seat of the impala, my fingers tapping at the window. 

“I’m going to catch a movie with Cas,” I explain to a very surprised Sam. “Shut up.” I flip him off for good measure, because even though I can’t hear his thoughts, I can take a pretty good guess. 

I head back to Castiel, who’s waiting for me, just in sight, my oxygen tank trailing half-heartedly behind me.


End file.
